Tate Modern

Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to the Tate Modern gallery we go. We went past this on the way to The Globe Theatre recently. How hard can it be to find again...

Everyone knows, before you look at art, you've got to get your laughing gear round a nice burger.

And they don't get much nicer than this.

Crossing the Thames by the Millenium footbridge, the tide was out and when the tide goes out, so do the mysterious Mudlarks. They pick all sorts of stuff out of the mud from Roman coins, to Victorian naval junk and modern garbage.

Ah, here we are. This used to be a coal-fire power station before the Tate got hold of it - and a bloody good job they did too.

This is the Turbine Hall, where the, err, turbines used to go and the biggest space in the gallery.

This bloke has found a lot of wooden stuff and made a nice pattern out of it.

For each piece, there is a little plaque telling you something about the piece. How hard can that be? I mean really...

Steve Roach 1958-
I Fart in Your General Direction - 2006
Digital Photograph treated for display on a Blog.

Here, the artist juxtaposes a crappy sculpture - wasn't even finished off with a decent lick of paint, the sentiment of the time - with his wife who has found something far more interesting out of the window. As she turns her back on the piece, she brings her derriere to bear and readies an eggy one. Reminiscent of Vito Acconci's navel gazing crap and evoking scenes of African disunity, he seems to be saying 'are the pubs open yet' or, more importantly, 'can anyone else get on this gravy train'. First exhibited in a basement flat in Ladbrooke grove to only two people, it was hardly worth the effort.

Very easy indeed, then.

The far more interesting thing out of the window.

Enough of that, the grumps don't allow photos - though it's not entirely clear as to why. You can see it with old paintings, constant flashes can fade the paint. It would be difficult to damage a badly welded together thingy made out of bits of old cars. Copywright was suggested but then they have photos of all sorts of stuff and it's not exactly explicitly stated that they got the owner's - or subject's, for that matter - permission when they were taken. The whole no-photo thing is a mystery unless they want you to buy piccies from the shop, I suppose.

Nice brown lawn for lunch. Global warming, it seems, is turning the lush green fields of south-eastern England into the sort of arid plain that Spain would be proud of.

Hey, I could get used to this writing thing...

Steve Roach 1958-
Pidgeons. On the Ground. - 2006
Digital Photograph treated for display on a Blog.

With obvious references to the Luftwaffe or, perhaps, grey splodgy things, the artist pictures the birds all moving in the same direction. Do they, like us, have purpose? Or, like us, do they lack direction? Are they just winged rats or do they have a place to play in the urban landscape? Whatever. Roach strangled the pidgeons just after the photograph was taken and ate them 'baked in a pie' for a piece of performance art - mistaking them for four and twenty blackbirds. As he said at the time; 'it is the artist that determines what art is', the pretentious twat.

For some reason, there was a lot of activity on the river. Even saw some Morris Dancers, something the English regard in much the same light as Australians see Steve Erwin - i.e. a national embarrasment.

And this lot decided to do the climb to the top of St Pauls. Good view up there but, frankly, I can't be bothered.

When I got home, I thought I'd look at a career change, too...